Etext of Sylvias Lovers Vol II by Elizabeth Gaskell

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Title: Sylvia's Lovers, Vol. II

Author: Elizabeth Gaskell

Posting Date: August 11, 2009 [EBook #4535]
Release Date: October, 2003
First Posted: February 4, 2002

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIA'S LOVERS, VOL. II ***

Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.

[Editor's Note:—The chapter numbering for volume 2 & 3 was changed from the original in order to have
unique chapter numbers for the complete version, so volume 2 starts with chapter XV and volume 3 starts
with chapter XXX.]

SYLVIA'S LOVERS.

BY

ELIZABETH GASKELL

Oh for thy voice to soothe and bless!
What hope of answer, or redress?
Behind the veil! Behind the veil!—Tennyson

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.
LONDON:

M.DCCC.LXIII.

CONTENTS

XV A DIFFICULT QUESTION
XVI THE ENGAGEMENT
XVII REJECTED WARNINGS
XVIII EDDY IN LOVE'S CURRENT

XIX AN IMPORTANT MISSION
XX LOVED AND LOST
XXI A REJECTED SUITOR
XXII DEEPENING SHADOWS
XXIII RETALIATION
XXIV BRIEF REJOICING
XXV COMING TROUBLES
XXVI A DREARY VIGIL
XXVII GLOOMY DAYS
XXVIII THE ORDEAL

XXIX WEDDING RAIMENT

CHAPTER XV

A DIFFICULT QUESTION

Philip went to bed with that kind of humble penitent gratitude in his heart, which we sometimes feel after a sudden

revulsion of feeling from despondency to hope. The night before it seemed as if all events were so arranged as to thwart
him in his dearest wishes; he felt now as if his discontent and repining, not twenty-four hours before, had been almost
impious, so great was the change in his circumstances for the better. Now all seemed promising for the fulfilment of
what he most desired. He was almost convinced that he was mistaken in thinking that Kinraid had had anything more
than a sailor's admiration for a pretty girl with regard to Sylvia; at any rate, he was going away to-morrow, in all
probability not to return for another year (for Greenland ships left for the northern seas as soon as there was a chance
of the ice being broken up), and ere then he himself might speak out openly, laying before her parents all his fortunate
prospects, and before her all his deep passionate love.

So this night his prayers were more than the mere form that they had been the night before; they were a vehement

expression of gratitude to God for having, as it were, interfered on his behalf, to grant him the desire of his eyes and the
lust of his heart. He was like too many of us, he did not place his future life in the hands of God, and only ask for grace
to do His will in whatever circumstances might arise; but he yearned in that terrible way after a blessing which, when
granted under such circumstances, too often turns out to be equivalent to a curse. And that spirit brings with it the
material and earthly idea that all events that favour our wishes are answers to our prayer; and so they are in one sense,
but they need prayer in a deeper and higher spirit to keep us from the temptation to evil which such events invariably
bring with them.

Philip little knew how Sylvia's time had been passed that day. If he had, he would have laid down this night with

even a heavier heart than he had done on the last.

Charley Kinraid accompanied his cousins as far as the spot where the path to Haytersbank Farm diverged. Then

he stopped his merry talk, and announced his intention of going to see farmer Robson. Bessy Corney looked
disappointed and a little sulky; but her sister Molly Brunton laughed, and said,—

'Tell truth, lad! Dannel Robson 'd niver have a call fra' thee if he hadn't a pretty daughter.'

'Indeed, but he would,' replied Charley, rather annoyed; 'when I've said a thing, I do it. I promised last night to go

see him; besides, I like the old man.'

'Well! when shall we tell mother yo're comin' whoam?'

'Toward eight o'clock—may-be sooner.'

'Why it's bare five now! bless t' lad, does he think o' staying theere a' neet, and they up so late last night, and Mrs.

Robson ailing beside? Mother 'll not think it kind on yo' either, will she, Bess?'

'I dunno. Charley mun do as he likes; I daresay no one'll miss him if he does bide away till eight.'

'Well, well! I can't tell what I shall do; but yo'd best not stop lingering here, for it's getting on, and there'll be a keen

frost by t' look o' the stars.'

Haytersbank was closed for the night as far as it ever was closed; there were no shutters to the windows, nor did

they care to draw the inside curtains, so few were the passers-by. The house door was fastened; but the shippen door a
little on in the same long low block of building stood open, and a dim light made an oblong upon the snowy ground
outside. As Kinraid drew near he heard talking there, and a woman's voice; he threw a passing glance through the
window into the fire-lit house-place, and seeing Mrs. Robson asleep by the fireside in her easy-chair, he went on.

There was the intermittent sound of the sharp whistling of milk into the pail, and Kester, sitting on a three-legged

stool, cajoling a capricious cow into letting her fragrant burden flow. Sylvia stood near the farther window-ledge, on
which a horn lantern was placed, pretending to knit at a gray worsted stocking, but in reality laughing at Kester's futile
endeavours, and finding quite enough to do with her eyes, in keeping herself untouched by the whisking tail, or the
occasional kick. The frosty air was mellowed by the warm and odorous breath of the cattle—breath that hung about the
place in faint misty clouds. There was only a dim light; such as it was, it was not dearly defined against the dark heavy
shadow in which the old black rafters and manger and partitions were enveloped.

As Charley came to the door, Kester was saying, 'Quiet wi' thee, wench! Theere now, she's a beauty, if she'll

stand still. There's niver sich a cow i' t' Riding; if she'll only behave hersel'. She's a bonny lass, she is; let down her milk,
theere's a pretty!'

'Why, Kester,' laughed Sylvia, 'thou'rt asking her for her milk wi' as many pretty speeches as if thou wert wooing a

wife!'

'Hey, lass!' said Kester, turning a bit towards her, and shutting one eye to cock the other the better upon her; an

operation which puckered up his already wrinkled face into a thousand new lines and folds. 'An' how does thee know
how a man woos a wife, that thee talks so knowin' about it? That's tellin'. Some un's been tryin' it on thee.'

'There's niver a one been so impudent,' said Sylvia, reddening and tossing her head a little; 'I'd like to see 'em try

me!'

'Well, well!' said Kester, wilfully misunderstanding her meaning, 'thou mun be patient, wench; and if thou's a good

lass, may-be thy turn 'll come and they 'll try it.'

'I wish thou'd talk of what thou's some knowledge on, Kester, i'stead of i' that silly way,' replied Sylvia.

'Then a mun talk no more 'bout women, for they're past knowin', an' druv e'en King Solomon silly.'

At this moment Charley stepped in. Sylvia gave a little start and dropped her ball of worsted. Kester made as

though absorbed in his task of cajoling Black Nell; but his eyes and ears were both vigilant.

'I was going into the house, but I saw yo'r mother asleep, and I didn't like to waken her, so I just came on here. Is

yo'r father to the fore?'

'No,' said Sylvia, hanging down her head a little, wondering if he could have heard the way in which she and Kester

had been talking, and thinking over her little foolish jokes with anger against herself. 'Father is gone to Winthrop about
some pigs as he's heerd on. He'll not be back till seven o'clock or so.'

It was but half-past five, and Sylvia in the irritation of the moment believed that she wished Kinraid would go. But

she would have been extremely disappointed if he had. Kinraid himself seemed to have no thought of the kind. He saw
with his quick eyes, not unaccustomed to women, that his coming so unexpectedly had fluttered Sylvia, and anxious to
make her quite at her ease with him, and not unwilling to conciliate Kester, he addressed his next speech to him, with
the same kind of air of interest in the old man's pursuit that a young man of a different class sometimes puts on when
talking to the chaperone of a pretty girl in a ball-room.

'That's a handsome beast yo've just been milking, master.'

'Ay; but handsome is as handsome does. It were only yesterday as she aimed her leg right at t' pail wi' t' afterings

in. She knowed it were afterings as well as any Christian, and t' more t' mischief t' better she likes it; an' if a hadn't been
too quick for her, it would have a' gone swash down i' t' litter. This'n 's a far better cow i' t' long run, she's just a steady
goer,' as the milky down-pour came musical and even from the stall next to Black Nell's.

Sylvia was knitting away vigorously, thinking all the while that it was a great pity she had not put on a better gown,

or even a cap with brighter ribbon, and quite unconscious how very pretty she looked standing against the faint light, her
head a little bent down; her hair catching bright golden touches, as it fell from under her little linen cap; her pink bed-
gown, confined by her apron-string, giving a sort of easy grace to her figure; her dark full linsey petticoat short above
her trim ancles, looking far more suitable to the place where she was standing than her long gown of the night before
would have done. Kinraid was wanting to talk to her, and to make her talk, but was uncertain how to begin. In the
meantime Kester went on with the subject last spoken about.

'Black Nell's at her fourth calf now, so she ought to ha' left off her tricks and turned sober-like. But bless yo',

there's some cows as 'll be skittish till they're fat for t' butcher. Not but what a like milking her better nor a steady goer;
a man has allays summat to be watchin' for; and a'm kind o' set up when a've mastered her at last. T' young missus
theere, she's mighty fond o' comin' t' see Black Nell at her tantrums. She'd niver come near me if a' cows were like
this'n.'

'Do you often come and see the cows milked?' asked Kinraid,

'Many a time,' said Sylvia, smiling a little. 'Why, when we're throng, I help Kester; but now we've only Black Nell

and Daisy giving milk. Kester knows as I can milk Black Nell quite easy,' she continued, half vexed that Kester had not
named this accomplishment.

'Ay! when she's in a good frame o' mind, as she is sometimes. But t' difficulty is to milk her at all times.'

'I wish I'd come a bit sooner. I should like t' have seen you milk Black Nell,' addressing Sylvia.

'Yo'd better come to-morrow e'en, and see what a hand she'll mak' on her,' said Kester.

'To-morrow night I shall be far on my road back to Shields.'

'To-morrow!' said Sylvia, suddenly looking up at him, and then dropping her eyes, as she found he had been

watching for the effect of his intelligence on her.

'I mun be back at t' whaler, where I'm engaged,' continued he. 'She's fitting up after a fresh fashion, and as I've

been one as wanted new ways, I mun be on the spot for t' look after her. Maybe I shall take a run down here afore
sailing in March. I'm sure I shall try.'

There was a good deal meant and understood by these last few words. The tone in which they were spoken gave

them a tender intensity not lost upon either of the hearers. Kester cocked his eye once more, but with as little
obtrusiveness as he could, and pondered the sailor's looks and ways. He remembered his coming about the place the
winter before, and how the old master had then appeared to have taken to him; but at that time Sylvia had seemed to
Kester too little removed from a child to have either art or part in Kinraid's visits; now, however, the case was different.
Kester in his sphere—among his circle of acquaintance, narrow though it was—had heard with much pride of Sylvia's
bearing away the bell at church and at market, wherever girls of her age were congregated. He was a north
countryman, so he gave out no further sign of his feelings than his mistress and Sylvia's mother had done on a like
occasion.

'T' lass is weel enough,' said he; but he grinned to himself, and looked about, and listened to the hearsay of every

lad, wondering who was handsome, and brave, and good enough to be Sylvia's mate. Now, of late, it had seemed to
the canny farm-servant pretty clear that Philip Hepburn was 'after her'; and to Philip, Kester had an instinctive
objection, a kind of natural antipathy such as has existed in all ages between the dwellers in a town and those in the
country, between agriculture and trade. So, while Kinraid and Sylvia kept up their half-tender, half-jesting conversation,
Kester was making up his slow persistent mind as to the desirability of the young man then present as a husband for his
darling, as much from his being other than Philip in every respect, as from the individual good qualities he possessed.
Kester's first opportunity of favouring Kinraid's suit consisted in being as long as possible over his milking; so never
were cows that required such 'stripping,' or were expected to yield such 'afterings', as Black Nell and Daisy that night.
But all things must come to an end; and at length Kester got up from his three-legged stool, on seeing what the others
did not—that the dip-candle in the lantern was coming to an end—and that in two or three minutes more the shippen
would be in darkness, and so his pails of milk be endangered. In an instant Sylvia had started out of her delicious
dreamland, her drooping eyes were raised, and recovered their power of observation; her ruddy arms were freed from
the apron in which she had enfolded them, as a protection from the gathering cold, and she had seized and adjusted the
wooden yoke across her shoulders, ready to bear the brimming milk-pails to the dairy.

'Look yo' at her!' exclaimed Kester to Charley, as he adjusted the fragrant pails on the yoke. 'She thinks she's

missus a ready, and she's allays for carrying in t' milk since t' rhumatiz cotched my shouther i' t' back end; and when she
says "Yea," it's as much as my heed's worth to say "Nay."'

And along the wall, round the corner, down the round slippery stones of the rambling farmyard, behind the

buildings, did Sylvia trip, safe and well-poised, though the ground wore all one coating of white snow, and in many
places was so slippery as to oblige Kinraid to linger near Kester, the lantern-bearer. Kester did not lose his
opportunity, though the cold misty night air provoked his asthmatic cough when-ever he breathed, and often interrupted
his words.

'She's a good wench—a good wench as iver was—an come on a good stock, an' that's summat, whether in a cow

or a woman. A've known her from a baby; she's a reet down good un.'

By this time they had reached the back-kitchen door, just as Sylvia had unladen herself, and was striking a light

with flint and tinder. The house seemed warm and inviting after the piercing outer air, although the kitchen into which

they entered contained only a raked and slumbering fire at one end, over which, on a crook, hung the immense pan of
potatoes cooking for the evening meal of the pigs. To this pan Kester immediately addressed himself, swinging it round
with ease, owing to the admirable simplicity of the old-fashioned machinery. Kinraid stood between Kester and the
door into the dairy, through which Sylvia had vanished with the milk. He half wished to conciliate Kester by helping him,
but he seemed also attracted, by a force which annihilated his will, to follow her wherever she went. Kester read his
mind.

'Let alone, let alone,' said he; 'pigs' vittle takes noan such dainty carryin' as milk. A may set it down an' niver spill a

drop; she's noan fit for t' serve swine, nor yo' other, mester; better help her t' teem t' milk.'

So Kinraid followed the light—his light—into the icy chill of the dairy, where the bright polished tin cans were

quickly dimmed with the warm, sweet-smelling milk, that Sylvia was emptying out into the brown pans. In his haste to
help her, Charley took up one of the pails.

'Eh? that'n 's to be strained. Yo' have a' the cow's hair in. Mother's very particular, and cannot abide a hair.'

So she went over to her awkward dairymaid, and before she—but not before he—was aware of the sweet

proximity, she was adjusting his happy awkward arms to the new office of holding a milk-strainer over the bowl, and
pouring the white liquid through it.

'There!' said she, looking up for a moment, and half blushing; 'now yo'll know how to do it next time.'

'I wish next time was to come now,' said Kinraid; but she had returned to her own pail, and seemed not to hear

him. He followed her to her side of the dairy. 'I've but a short memory, can yo' not show me again how t' hold t'
strainer?'

'No,' said she, half laughing, but holding her strainer fast in spite of his insinuating efforts to unlock her fingers. 'But

there's no need to tell me yo've getten a short memory.'

'Why? what have I done? how dun you know it?'

'Last night,' she began, and then she stopped, and turned away her head, pretending to be busy in her dairy duties

of rinsing and such like.

'Well!' said he, half conjecturing her meaning, and flattered by it, if his conjecture were right. 'Last night—what?'

'Oh, yo' know!' said she, as if impatient at being both literally and metaphorically followed about, and driven into a

corner.

'No; tell me,' persisted he.

'Well,' said she, 'if yo' will have it, I think yo' showed yo'd but a short memory when yo' didn't know me again, and

yo' were five times at this house last winter, and that's not so long sin'. But I suppose yo' see a vast o' things on yo'r
voyages by land or by sea, and then it's but natural yo' should forget.' She wished she could go on talking, but could not
think of anything more to say just then; for, in the middle of her sentence, the flattering interpretation he might put upon
her words, on her knowing so exactly the number of times he had been to Haytersbank, flashed upon her, and she
wanted to lead the conversation a little farther afield—to make it a little less personal. This was not his wish, however.
In a tone which thrilled through her, even in her own despite, he said,—

'Do yo' think that can ever happen again, Sylvia?'

She was quite silent; almost trembling. He repeated the question as if to force her to answer. Driven to bay, she

equivocated.

'What happen again? Let me go, I dunno what yo're talking about, and I'm a'most numbed wi' cold.'

For the frosty air came sharp in through the open lattice window, and the ice was already forming on the milk.

Kinraid would have found a ready way of keeping his cousins, or indeed most young women, warm; but he paused
before he dared put his arm round Sylvia; she had something so shy and wild in her look and manner; and her very
innocence of what her words, spoken by another girl, might lead to, inspired him with respect, and kept him in check.
So he contented himself with saying,—

'I'll let yo' go into t' warm kitchen if yo'll tell me if yo' think I can ever forget yo' again.'

She looked up at him defiantly, and set her red lips firm. He enjoyed her determination not to reply to this question;

it showed she felt its significance. Her pure eyes looked steadily into his; nor was the expression in his such as to daunt
her or make her afraid. They were like two children defying each other; each determined to conquer. At last she
unclosed her lips, and nodding her head as if in triumph, said, as she folded her arms once more in her check apron,—

'Yo'll have to go home sometime.'

'Not for a couple of hours yet,' said he; 'and yo'll be frozen first; so yo'd better say if I can ever forget yo' again,

without more ado.'

Perhaps the fresh voices breaking on the silence,—perhaps the tones were less modulated than they had been

before, but anyhow Bell Robson's voice was heard calling Sylvia through the second door, which opened from the dairy
to the house-place, in which her mother had been till this moment asleep. Sylvia darted off in obedience to the call; glad
to leave him, as at the moment Kinraid resentfully imagined. Through the open door he heard the conversation between
mother and daughter, almost unconscious of its meaning, so difficult did he find it to wrench his thoughts from the ideas
he had just been forming with Sylvia's bright lovely face right under his eyes.

'Sylvia!' said her mother, 'who's yonder?' Bell was sitting up in the attitude of one startled out of slumber into

intensity of listening; her hands on each of the chair-arms, as if just going to rise. 'There's a fremd man i' t' house. I heerd
his voice!'

'It's only—it's just Charley Kinraid; he was a-talking to me i' t' dairy.'

'I' t' dairy, lass! and how com'd he i' t' dairy?'

'He com'd to see feyther. Feyther asked him last night,' said Sylvia, conscious that he could overhear every word

that was said, and a little suspecting that he was no great favourite with her mother.

'Thy feyther's out; how com'd he i' t' dairy?' persevered Bell.

'He com'd past this window, and saw yo' asleep, and didn't like for t' waken yo'; so he com'd on to t' shippen, and

when I carried t' milk in—-'

But now Kinraid came in, feeling the awkwardness of his situation a little, yet with an expression so pleasant and

manly in his open face, and in his exculpatory manner, that Sylvia lost his first words in a strange kind of pride of
possession in him, about which she did not reason nor care to define the grounds. But her mother rose from her chair
somewhat formally, as if she did not intend to sit down again while he stayed, yet was too weak to be kept in that
standing attitude long.

'I'm afeared, sir, Sylvie hasn't told yo' that my master's out, and not like to be in till late. He'll be main and sorry to

have missed yo'.'

There was nothing for it after this but to go. His only comfort was that on Sylvia's rosy face he could read

unmistakable signs of regret and dismay. His sailor's life, in bringing him suddenly face to face with unexpected events,
had given him something of that self-possession which we consider the attribute of a gentleman; and with an apparent
calmness which almost disappointed Sylvia, who construed it into a symptom of indifference as to whether he went or
stayed, he bade her mother good-night, and only said, in holding her hand a minute longer than was absolutely
necessary,—

'I'm coming back ere I sail; and then, may-be, you'll answer yon question.'

He spoke low, and her mother was rearranging herself in her chair, else Sylvia would have had to repeat the

previous words. As it was, with soft thrilling ideas ringing through her, she could get her wheel, and sit down to her
spinning by the fire; waiting for her mother to speak first, Sylvia dreamt her dreams.

Bell Robson was partly aware of the state of things, as far as it lay on the surface. She was not aware how deep

down certain feelings had penetrated into the girl's heart who sat on the other side of the fire, with a little sad air diffused
over her face and figure. Bell looked upon Sylvia as still a child, to be warned off forbidden things by threats of danger.
But the forbidden thing was already tasted, and possible danger in its full acquisition only served to make it more
precious-sweet.

Bell sat upright in her chair, gazing into the fire. Her milk-white linen mob-cap fringed round and softened her face,

from which the usual apple-red was banished by illness, and the features, from the same cause, rendered more
prominent and stern. She had a clean buff kerchief round her neck, and stuffed into the bosom of her Sunday woollen
gown of dark blue,—if she had been in working-trim she would have worn a bedgown like Sylvia's. Her sleeves were
pinned back at the elbows, and her brown arms and hard-working hands lay crossed in unwonted idleness on her
check apron. Her knitting was by her side; and if she had been going through any accustomed calculation or
consideration she would have had it busily clinking in her fingers. But she had something quite beyond common to think
about, and, perhaps, to speak about; and for the minute she was not equal to knitting.

'Sylvie,' she began at length, 'did I e'er tell thee on Nancy Hartley as I knew when I were a child? I'm thinking a

deal on her to-night; may-be it's because I've been dreaming on yon old times. She was a bonny lass as ever were seen,
I've heerd folk say; but that were afore I knew her. When I knew her she were crazy, poor wench; wi' her black hair a-

streaming down her back, and her eyes, as were a'most as black, allays crying out for pity, though never a word she
spoke but "He once was here." Just that o'er and o'er again, whether she were cold or hot, full or hungry, "He once was
here," were all her speech. She had been farm-servant to my mother's brother—James Hepburn, thy great-uncle as
was; she were a poor, friendless wench, a parish 'prentice, but honest and gaum-like, till a lad, as nobody knowed,
come o'er the hills one sheep-shearing fra' Whitehaven; he had summat to do wi' th' sea, though not rightly to be called
a sailor: and he made a deal on Nancy Hartley, just to beguile the time like; and he went away and ne'er sent a thought
after her more. It's the way as lads have; and there's no holding 'em when they're fellows as nobody knows—neither
where they come fro', nor what they've been doing a' their lives, till they come athwart some poor wench like Nancy
Hartley. She were but a softy after all: for she left off doing her work in a proper manner. I've heerd my aunt say as she
found out as summat was wrong wi' Nancy as soon as th' milk turned bingy, for there ne'er had been such a clean lass
about her milk-cans afore that; and from bad it grew to worse, and she would sit and do nothing but play wi' her fingers
fro' morn till night, and if they asked her what ailed her, she just said, "He once was here;" and if they bid her go about
her work, it were a' the same. And when they scolded her, and pretty sharp too, she would stand up and put her hair
from her eyes, and look about her like a crazy thing searching for her wits, and ne'er finding them, for all she could think
on was just, "He once was here." It were a caution to me again thinking a man t' mean what he says when he's a-talking
to a young woman.'

'But what became on poor Nancy?' asked Sylvia.

'What should become on her or on any lass as gives hersel' up to thinking on a man who cares nought for her?'

replied her mother, a little severely. 'She were crazed, and my aunt couldn't keep her on, could she? She did keep her a
long weary time, thinking as she would, may-be, come to hersel', and, anyhow, she were a motherless wench. But at
length she had for t' go where she came fro'—back to Keswick workhouse: and when last I heerd on her she were
chained to th' great kitchen dresser i' t' workhouse; they'd beaten her till she were taught to be silent and quiet i' th'
daytime, but at night, when she were left alone, she would take up th' oud cry, till it wrung their heart, so they'd many a
time to come down and beat her again to get any peace. It were a caution to me, as I said afore, to keep fro' thinking
on men as thought nought on me.'

'Poor crazy Nancy!' sighed Sylvia. The mother wondered if she had taken the 'caution' to herself, or was only full

of pity for the mad girl, dead long before.

CHAPTER XVI

THE ENGAGEMENT

'As the day lengthens so the cold strengthens.' It was so that year; the hard frost which began on new year's eve

lasted on and on into late February, black and bitter, but welcome enough to the farmers, as it kept back the too early
growth of autumn-sown wheat, and gave them the opportunity of leading manure. But it did not suit invalids as well, and
Bell Robson, though not getting worse, did not make any progress towards amendment. Sylvia was kept very busy,
notwithstanding that she had the assistance of a poor widow-woman in the neighbourhood on cleaning, or washing, or
churning days. Her life was quiet and monotonous, although hard-working; and while her hands mechanically found and
did their accustomed labour, the thoughts that rose in her head always centred on Charley Kinraid, his ways, his words,
his looks, whether they all meant what she would fain believe they did, and whether, meaning love at the time, such a
feeling was likely to endure. Her mother's story of crazy Nancy had taken hold of her; but not as a 'caution,' rather as a
parallel case to her own. Like Nancy, and borrowing the poor girl's own words, she would say softly to herself, 'He
once was here'; but all along she believed in her heart he would come back again to her, though it touched her strangely
to imagine the agonies of forsaken love.

Philip knew little of all this. He was very busy with facts and figures, doggedly fighting through the necessary

business, and only now and then allowing himself the delicious relaxation of going to Haytersbank in an evening, to
inquire after his aunt's health, and to see Sylvia; for the two Fosters were punctiliously anxious to make their shopmen
test all their statements; insisting on an examination of the stock, as if Hepburn and Coulson were strangers to the shop;
having the Monkshaven auctioneer in to appraise the fixtures and necessary furniture; going over the shop books for the
last twenty years with their successors, an employment which took up evening after evening; and not unfrequently taking
one of the young men on the long commercial journeys which were tediously made in a gig. By degrees both Hepburn
and Coulson were introduced to distant manufacturers and wholesale dealers. They would have been willing to take the
Fosters' word for every statement the brothers had made on new year's day; but this, it was evident, would not have
satisfied their masters, who were scrupulous in insisting that whatever advantage there was should always fall on the side
of the younger men.

When Philip saw Sylvia she was always quiet and gentle; perhaps more silent than she had been a year ago, and

she did not attend so briskly to what was passing around her. She was rather thinner and paler; but whatever change

there was in her was always an improvement in Philip's eyes, so long as she spoke graciously to him. He thought she
was suffering from long-continued anxiety about her mother, or that she had too much to do; and either cause was
enough to make him treat her with a grave regard and deference which had a repressed tenderness in it, of which she,
otherwise occupied, was quite unaware. She liked him better, too, than she had done a year or two before, because he
did not show her any of the eager attention which teased her then, although its meaning was not fully understood.

Things were much in this state when the frost broke, and milder weather succeeded. This was the time so long

looked forward to by the invalid and her friends, as favouring the doctor's recommendation of change of air. Her
husband was to take her to spend a fortnight with a kindly neighbour, who lived near the farm they had occupied, forty
miles or so inland, before they came to Haytersbank. The widow-woman was to come and stay in the house, to keep
Sylvia company, during her mother's absence. Daniel, indeed, was to return home after conveying his wife to her
destination; but there was so much to be done on the land at this time of the year, that Sylvia would have been alone all
day had it not been for the arrangement just mentioned.

There was active stirring in Monkshaven harbour as well as on shore. The whalers were finishing their fittings-out

for the Greenland seas. It was a 'close' season, that is to say, there would be difficulty in passing the barrier of ice which
lay between the ships and the whaling-grounds; and yet these must be reached before June, or the year's expedition
would be of little avail. Every blacksmith's shop rung with the rhythmical clang of busy hammers, beating out old iron,
such as horseshoes, nails or stubs, into the great harpoons; the quays were thronged with busy and important sailors,
rushing hither and thither, conscious of the demand in which they were held at this season of the year. It was war time,
too. Many captains unable to procure men in Monkshaven would have to complete their crews in the Shetlands. The
shops in the town were equally busy; stores had to be purchased by the whaling-masters, warm clothing of all sorts to
be provided. These were the larger wholesale orders; but many a man, and woman, too, brought out their small hoards
to purchase extra comforts, or precious keepsakes for some beloved one. It was the time of the great half-yearly traffic
of the place; another impetus was given to business when the whalers returned in the autumn, and the men were flush of
money, and full of delight at once more seeing their homes and their friends.

There was much to be done in Fosters' shop, and later hours were kept than usual. Some perplexity or other was

occupying John and Jeremiah Foster; their minds were not so much on the alert as usual, being engaged on some
weighty matter of which they had as yet spoken to no one. But it thus happened that they did not give the prompt
assistance they were accustomed to render at such times; and Coulson had been away on some of the new expeditions
devolving on him and Philip as future partners. One evening after the shop was closed, while they were examining the
goods, and comparing the sales with the entries in the day-book, Coulson suddenly inquired—

'By the way, Hester, does thee know where the parcel of best bandanas is gone? There was four left, as I'm pretty

sure, when I set off to Sandsend; and to-day Mark Alderson came in, and would fain have had one, and I could find
none nowhere.'

'I sold t' last to-day, to yon sailor, the specksioneer, who fought the press-gang same time as poor Darley were

killed. He took it, and three yards of yon pink ribbon wi' t' black and yellow crosses on it, as Philip could never abide.
Philip has got 'em i' t' book, if he'll only look.'

'Is he here again?' said Philip; 'I didn't see him. What brings him here, where he's noan wanted?'

'T' shop were throng wi' folk,' said Hester, 'and he knew his own mind about the handkercher, and didn't tarry

long. Just as he was leaving, his eye caught on t' ribbon, and he came back for it. It were when yo' were serving Mary
Darby and there was a vast o' folk about yo'.'

'I wish I'd seen him,' said Coulson. 'I'd ha' gi'en him a word and a look he'd not ha' forgotten in a hurry.'

'Why, what's up?' said Philip, surprised at William's unusual manner, and, at the same time, rather gratified to find a

reflection of his own feelings about Kinraid. Coulson's face was pale with anger, but for a moment or two he seemed
uncertain whether he would reply or not.

'Up!' said he at length. 'It's just this: he came after my sister for better nor two year; and a better lass—no, nor a

prettier i' my eyes—niver broke bread. And then my master saw another girl, that he liked better'—William almost
choked in his endeavour to keep down all appearance of violent anger, and then went on, 'and that he played t' same
game wi', as I've heerd tell.'

'And how did thy sister take it?' asked Philip, eagerly.

'She died in a six-month,' said William; 'she forgived him, but it's beyond me. I thought it were him when I heerd of

t' work about Darley; Kinraid—and coming fra' Newcassel, where Annie lived 'prentice—and I made inquiry, and it
were t' same man. But I'll say no more about him, for it stirs t' old Adam more nor I like, or is fitting.'

Out of respect to him, Philip asked no more questions although there were many things that he fain would have

known. Both Coulson and he went silently and grimly through the remainder of their day's work. Independent of any
personal interest which either or both of them had or might have in Kinraid's being a light o' love, this fault of his was

one with which the two grave, sedate young men had no sympathy. Their hearts were true and constant, whatever else
might be their failings; and it is no new thing to 'damn the faults we have no mind to.' Philip wished that it was not so
late, or that very evening he would have gone to keep guard over Sylvia in her mother's absence—nay, perhaps he
might have seen reason to give her a warning of some kind. But, if he had done so, it would have been locking the
stable-door after the steed was stolen. Kinraid had turned his steps towards Haytersbank Farm as soon as ever he had
completed his purchases. He had only come that afternoon to Monkshaven, and for the sole purpose of seeing Sylvia
once more before he went to fulfil his engagement as specksioneer in the Urania, a whaling-vessel that was to sail from
North Shields on Thursday morning, and this was Monday.

Sylvia sat in the house-place, her back to the long low window, in order to have all the light the afternoon hour

afforded for her work. A basket of her father's unmended stockings was on the little round table beside her, and one
was on her left hand, which she supposed herself to be mending; but from time to time she made long pauses, and
looked in the fire; and yet there was but little motion of flame or light in it out of which to conjure visions. It was 'redd
up' for the afternoon; covered with a black mass of coal, over which the equally black kettle hung on the crook. In the
back-kitchen Dolly Reid, Sylvia's assistant during her mother's absence, chanted a lugubrious ditty, befitting her
condition as a widow, while she cleaned tins, and cans, and milking-pails. Perhaps these bustling sounds prevented
Sylvia from hearing approaching footsteps coming down the brow with swift advance; at any rate, she started and
suddenly stood up as some one entered the open door. It was strange she should be so much startled, for the person
who entered had been in her thoughts all during those long pauses. Charley Kinraid and the story of crazy Nancy had
been the subjects for her dreams for many a day, and many a night. Now he stood there, bright and handsome as ever,
with just that much timidity in his face, that anxiety as to his welcome, which gave his accost an added charm, could she
but have perceived it. But she was so afraid of herself, so unwilling to show what she felt, and how much she had been
thinking of him in his absence, that her reception seemed cold and still. She did not come forward to meet him; she went
crimson to the very roots of her hair; but that, in the waning light, he could not see; and she shook so that she felt as if
she could hardly stand; but the tremor was not visible to him. She wondered if he remembered the kiss that had passed
between them on new year's eve—the words that had been spoken in the dairy on new year's day; the tones, the looks,
that had accompanied those words. But all she said was—

'I didn't think to see yo'. I thought yo'd ha' sailed.'

'I told yo' I should come back, didn't I?' said he, still standing, with his hat in his hand, waiting to be asked to sit

down; and she, in her bashfulness, forgetting to give the invitation, but, instead, pretending to be attentively mending the
stocking she held. Neither could keep quiet and silent long. She felt his eyes were upon her, watching every motion, and
grew more and more confused in her expression and behaviour. He was a little taken aback by the nature of his
reception, and was not sure at first whether to take the great change in her manner, from what it had been when last he
saw her, as a favourable symptom or otherwise. By-and-by, luckily for him, in some turn of her arm to reach the
scissors on the table, she caught the edge of her work-basket, and down it fell. She stooped to pick up the scattered
stockings and ball of worsted, and so did he; and when they rose up, he had fast hold of her hand, and her face was
turned away, half ready to cry.

'What ails yo' at me?' said he, beseechingly. 'Yo' might ha' forgotten me; and yet I thought we made a bargain

against forgetting each other.' No answer. He went on: 'Yo've never been out o' my thoughts, Sylvia Robson; and I'm
come back to Monkshaven for nought but to see you once and again afore I go away to the northern seas. It's not two
hour sin' I landed at Monkshaven, and I've been near neither kith nor kin as yet; and now I'm here you won't speak to
me.'

'I don't know what to say,' said she, in a low, almost inaudible tone. Then hardening herself, and resolving to speak

as if she did not understand his only half-expressed meaning, she lifted up her head, and all but looking at him—while
she wrenched her hand out of his—she said: 'Mother's gone to Middleham for a visit, and feyther's out i' t' plough-field
wi' Kester; but he'll be in afore long.'

Charley did not speak for a minute or so. Then he said—

'Yo're not so dull as to think I'm come all this way for t' see either your father or your mother. I've a great respect

for 'em both; but I'd hardly ha' come all this way for to see 'em, and me bound to be back i' Shields, if I walk every step
of the way, by Wednesday night. It's that yo' won't understand my meaning, Sylvia; it's not that yo' don't, or that yo'
can't.' He made no effort to repossess himself of her hand. She was quite silent, but in spite of herself she drew long
hard breaths. 'I may go back to where I came from,' he went on. 'I thought to go to sea wi' a blessed hope to cheer me
up, and a knowledge o' some one as loved me as I'd left behind; some one as loved me half as much as I did her; for th'
measure o' my love toward her is so great and mighty, I'd be content wi' half as much from her, till I'd taught her to love
me more. But if she's a cold heart and cannot care for a honest sailor, why, then, I'd best go back at once.'

He made for the door. He must have been pretty sure from some sign or other, or he would never have left it to her

womanly pride to give way, and for her to make the next advance. He had not taken two steps when she turned quickly
towards him, and said something—the echo of which, rather than the words themselves, reached him.

'I didn't know yo' cared for me; yo' niver said so.' In an instant he was back at her side, his arm round her in spite

of her short struggle, and his eager passionate voice saying, 'Yo' never knowed I loved you, Sylvia? say it again, and
look i' my face while yo' say it, if yo' can. Why, last winter I thought yo'd be such a woman when yo'd come to be one
as my een had never looked upon, and this year, ever sin' I saw yo' i' the kitchen corner sitting crouching behind my
uncle, I as good as swore I'd have yo' for wife, or never wed at all. And it was not long ere yo' knowed it, for all yo'
were so coy, and now yo' have the face—no, yo' have not the face—come, my darling, what is it?' for she was crying;
and on his turning her wet blushing face towards him the better to look at it, she suddenly hid it in his breast. He lulled
and soothed her in his arms, as if she had been a weeping child and he her mother; and then they sat down on the settle
together, and when she was more composed they began to talk. He asked her about her mother; not sorry in his heart
at Bell Robson's absence. He had intended if necessary to acknowledge his wishes and desires with regard to Sylvia to
her parents; but for various reasons he was not sorry that circumstances had given him the chance of seeing her alone,
and obtaining her promise to marry him without being obliged to tell either her father or her mother at present. 'I ha'
spent my money pretty free,' he said, 'and I've ne'er a penny to the fore, and yo'r parents may look for something better
for yo', my pretty: but when I come back fro' this voyage I shall stand a chance of having a share i' th' Urania, and
may-be I shall be mate as well as specksioneer; and I can get a matter of from seventy to ninety pound a voyage, let
alone th' half-guineas for every whale I strike, and six shilling a gallon on th' oil; and if I keep steady wi' Forbes and
Company, they'll make me master i' time, for I've had good schooling, and can work a ship as well as any man; an' I
leave yo' wi' yo'r parents, or take a cottage for yo' nigh at hand; but I would like to have something to the fore, and that
I shall have, please God, when we come back i' th' autumn. I shall go to sea happy, now, thinking I've yo'r word. Yo're
not one to go back from it, I'm sure, else it's a long time to leave such a pretty girl as yo', and ne'er a chance of a letter
reaching yo' just to tell yo' once again how I love yo', and to bid yo' not forget yo'r true love.'

'There'll be no need o' that,' murmured Sylvia.

She was too dizzy with happiness to have attended much to his details of his worldly prospects, but at the sound of

his tender words of love her eager heart was ready to listen.

'I don't know,' said he, wanting to draw her out into more confession of her feelings. 'There's many a one ready to

come after yo'; and yo'r mother is not o'er captivated wi' me; and there's yon tall fellow of a cousin as looks black at
me, for if I'm not mista'en he's a notion of being sweet on yo' hisself.'

'Not he,' said Sylvia, with some contempt in her tone. 'He's so full o' business and t' shop, and o' makin' money,

and gettin' wealth.'

'Ay, ay; but perhaps when he gets a rich man he'll come and ask my Sylvia to be his wife, and what will she say

then?'

'He'll niver come asking such a foolish question,' said she, a little impatiently; 'he knows what answer he'd get if he

did.'

Kinraid said, almost as if to himself, 'Yo'r mother favours him though.' But she, weary of a subject she cared

nothing about, and eager to identify herself with all his interests, asked him about his plans almost at the same time that
he said these last words; and they went on as lovers do, intermixing a great many tender expressions with a very little
conversation relating to facts.

Dolly Reid came in, and went out softly, unheeded by them. But Sylvia's listening ears caught her father's voice, as

he and Kester returned homewards from their day's work in the plough-field; and she started away, and fled upstairs in
shy affright, leaving Charley to explain his presence in the solitary kitchen to her father.

He came in, not seeing that any one was there at first; for they had never thought of lighting a candle. Kinraid

stepped forward into the firelight; his purpose of concealing what he had said to Sylvia quite melted away by the cordial
welcome her father gave him the instant that he recognized him.

'Bless thee, lad! who'd ha' thought o' seein' thee? Why, if iver a thought on thee at all, it were half way to Davis'

Straits. To be sure, t' winter's been a dree season, and thou'rt, may-be, i' t' reet on 't to mak' a late start. Latest start as
iver I made was ninth o' March, an' we struck thirteen whales that year.'

'I have something to say to you,' said Charley, in a hesitating voice, so different to his usual hearty way, that Daniel

gave him a keen look of attention before he began to speak. And, perhaps, the elder man was not unprepared for the
communication that followed. At any rate, it was not unwelcome. He liked Kinraid, and had strong sympathy not merely
with what he knew of the young sailor's character, but with the life he led, and the business he followed. Robson
listened to all he said with approving nods and winks, till Charley had told him everything he had to say; and then he
turned and struck his broad horny palm into Kinraid's as if concluding a bargain, while he expressed in words his hearty
consent to their engagement. He wound up with a chuckle, as the thought struck him that this great piece of business, of
disposing of their only child, had been concluded while his wife was away.

'A'm noan so sure as t' missus 'll like it,' said he; 'tho' whativer she'll ha' to say again it, mischief only knows. But

she's noan keen on matterimony; though a have made her as good a man as there is in a' t' Ridings. Anyhow, a'm

master, and that she knows. But may-be, for t' sake o' peace an' quietness—tho' she's niver a scolding tongue, that a
will say for her—we'n best keep this matter to ourselves till thou comes int' port again. T' lass upstairs 'll like nought
better than t' curl hersel' round a secret, and purr o'er it, just as t' oud cat does o'er her blind kitten. But thou'll be
wanting to see t' lass, a'll be bound. An oud man like me isn't as good company as a pretty lass.' Laughing a low rich
laugh over his own wit, Daniel went to the bottom of the stairs, and called, 'Sylvie, Sylvie! come down, lass! a's reet;
come down!'

For a time there was no answer. Then a door was unbolted, and Sylvia said,

'I can't come down again. I'm noan comin' down again to-night.'

Daniel laughed the more at this, especially when he caught Charley's look of disappointment.

'Hearken how she's bolted her door. She'll noane come near us this night. Eh! but she's a stiff little 'un; she's been

our only one, and we'n mostly let her have her own way. But we'll have a pipe and a glass; and that, to my thinking, is
as good company as iver a woman in Yorkshire.'

CHAPTER XVII

REJECTED WARNINGS

The post arrived at Monkshaven three times in the week; sometimes, indeed, there were not a dozen letters in the

bag, which was brought thither by a man in a light mail-cart, who took the better part of a day to drive from York;
dropping private bags here and there on the moors, at some squire's lodge or roadside inn. Of the n...